


Prince of Death, Lover of Life

by bespectacledwallflower



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bespectacledwallflower/pseuds/bespectacledwallflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hades/Persephone inspired AU. Ivan, vassal of Hades and crown prince of the kingdom of the dead. Lili, beautiful young servant to springtime and life. The war is dragging many to the underworld, including her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince of Death, Lover of Life

In a vast, cavernous realm not so different from the earth above it, a paling youth wanes like the moon. He is broad yet feeble, ghostly ribs revealed beneath his heavy winter uniform, but in time he will grow in strength, the slight bulge set to return to his stomach. The throne bites through the dusty gray uniform pants with ferocity. The vassal of Hades sits; chin on hand, Ivan Braginsky is watching nothing, doing nothing. Death need not rise to come to the mortals above.

On a stark, windy hill strewn with wildflowers, a golden youth ripens like a berry. She is airy and walks like love, with sunny blonde hair newly shorn for the coming summer. In time she will discard her diaphanous dresses for wool and worn boots; she will learn to forget the taste of honey and sharp cheese. The sun smiles on her blushing shoulders. The springtime dances with abandon among her green companions. Lili Zwingli smiles at her mistress and graces the whole of the earth. The grasses bow to the maid at the end of her dance. 

In Leningrad some months later, General Winter releases his dogs upon the city. Even he cannot prevent the arrival of the bombs. Traitorous wounds are said to sting more, but when frozen past the point of feeling it can be difficult to tell.  
It would not be so bad if Ivan was not Russian. Nothing would be so bad if anyone was not Russian, he thinks, with a smile bitter like over-steeped tea. To watch one’s own people enter the realm of the dead with such speed is different, somehow, than watching nameless masses shuffle through the border gates and fumble for their papers.  
So many are coming. Even the food of the dead must be rationed these days. Ivan counts five visible ribs on either side with calloused fingers.

In Switzerland, shots may be heard over the mountains, but nothing much is heard inside of them beyond news and the usual clamor of cowbells and church bells. The dead are not launched headlong into Hades, but lowered gently, with many blessings and blossoms. Lili has always wondered that the flower bearing her name is used to celebrate death more often than life.  
In time, she might believe it to be fate.

Death may need not to rise to come to her, but in time, he would, with sallow cheeks and endlessly mourning eyes. And she would follow him into the darkness.


End file.
